Somehow We'll Get By
by AliuIce0814
Summary: Dr. John Watson has never met a patient quite like two-year-old Sherlock Holmes. When it falls to him to care for the little genius and his seven-year-old brother, John gets more than he bargained for. WIP, family fic.
1. Stairs Are for Falling

Second Lieutenant John Watson, MD, popped his stiff neck as he strode down the halls of the children's hospital to the cafeteria. He had already lost most of his lunch break trying to soothe a nauseous five-year-old—not that he blamed the poor kid. Chemotherapy was hard enough on adults. For a body so small to go through so much…days like today made John wish he was back in the Middle East with his unit. _At least over there I can shoot the enemy and be done with it. Here, it's not so simple._

John was grateful for the job, of course. The money the RAMC paid him while he was off-duty wasn't nearly enough to keep a roof over his head. The children's hospital gave him more than enough to cover his rent. It was just that, some days, watching all the frail figures drifting in and out of the hospital, he longed for a war he knew he could win. Death in battle was one thing. Watching a child too young for school choke on her own blood was another.

"Hey, John. John!"

John gritted his teeth and walked a little faster. When the voice called his name again more desperately, John rolled his eyes and turned around. "Yeah, Tony? Hey, you all right?"

All of John's irritation drained away when he noticed his co-worker's red-rimmed eyes. Tony took a steadying breath before he forced out, "Girlfriend was in a car crash in Bristol. She's unconscious right now, so they don't know if she'll—" Tony took another shivering gulp of air. Instinctively, John reached out a hand to steady him. "I have to go to her. I need you to take my shift. Please?"

"Jesus Christ, Tony. Of course I will," John said instantly. "Here, give me your patient files and get out of here."

"Thanks," Tony breathed. John watched him vault over the nurses' station and bolt out the hospital's front doors. A part of John felt as though he should have said more, but…_what would I have said? I'll pray? I won't. The only time I believe in God is when I'm being shot at. It's too easy to put the blame on something that's not real. Jesus Christ, though, a crash._

With a grimace, John tugged his attention away from what he couldn't control and to the thick file in his hand. "So much for my lunch," he muttered. "Okay. Who's first?"

_Please no cancer patients. _The thought came before John could stop it. The memory of the little girl shivering in her hospital bed made his fists clench. _No more today. Something exciting, for Christ's sake. I'm dying here._

With trepidation filling his stomach,John flipped the file open to the first page. The strangest name he had ever seen greeted him. "Sherlock Holmes. Who the hell calls their kid Sherlock Holmes?"

The two-year-old boy was not a cancer patient, thank God. Instead, he was in the second floor trauma unit. He'd taken a nasty fall down a flight of stairs at his home; while the cut on his forehead had easily been sewn up the night before, he'd been kept at the hospital overnight to ensure he didn't have a concussion. Underneath the boy's previous vital signs, Tony had scrawled a single note: _Too damn smart._

John frowned. No diagnosis, other than the straightforward information a nurse had penned on the form. Just _too damn smart, _whatever the hell that meant.

Even before he reached Room 221, John could hear the petulant cries coming from within. A nurse's voice tried to soothe over them, but her soft words did nothing to muffle little Sherlock's whine. "Bored!"

"I know you are, love, but you have to stay still until the doctor comes in to check on you. Oh, look! There he is! That's your doctor, see, Sherlock?"

John spared a smile for the harried-looking nurse. "Hey, Mary. I can handle it from here."

"Thank God," Mary Morstan grumbled. "Watch him, John," she warned as she brushed past him. "He's a little monster."

John rolled his eyes. "Oh, he can't be that bad—"

"Who are you?"

The sharp little voice caught John's attention immediately. When he turned back toward the hospital bed, it was to find Sherlock Holmes fixing him with a stare that was much too keen for a two-year-old. "I'm Dr. Watson."

The boy studied him warily with piercing blue eyes. Then, with diction far too clear for such a small child, Sherlock said, "You aren't my usual doctor. You're new from the army. Why are you here?"

John blinked. "I—how the he…um, how could you have possibly known about the army?"

Sherlock shrugged his thin shoulders. "Hair's short. You stand up straight. Your skin's darker, too, like you fought in the desert."

"Ah—well, yes, that's because I am a soldier." When he'd first started his rounds at the hospital, the more experienced doctors had warned John to never go into detail about his life as a soldier in case it upset the children. The bright curiosity in Sherlock's pale eyes made John throw all those well-meant warnings out the window. "I'm Second Lieutenant John Watson of the Royal Army Medical Corps. I just got back from Afghanistan a month ago."

"Afghanistan." Sherlock seemed to roll the word around his mouth, testing it out, before he nodded. "Where's my doctor?"

"He had a…family emergency, so I offered to take his patients for the rest of the day. That includes you. Sherlock Holmes, right?"

The little boy nodded. "I had a concuss—concussion, but I feel fine now."

_Bloody hell. How does he know…too damn smart is right. _John shook himself and reached out to hold Sherlock's head still. "It doesn't hurt to shake your head?"

Sherlock fixed John with a condescending stare. "Obviously not." He emphasized the usually-silent 'b' in obviously; John's lips twitched upward at the impatient drawl.

"Yeah, I guess that was a bit of a stupid question. Okay, does your tummy—"

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. "Tummy? I'm not stupid, John! It's my stomach!"

Now, John did choke back a surprised chuckle. "Sorry, I'm sorry! I'm not used to kids as intelligent as you. Right, stomach, does your stomach hurt at all?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm not dizzy, either. I told you, John, I feel fine!"

"All right, all right, Sherlock. I believe you! I have to check you over just in case, though."

As soon as John reached for Sherlock, the tiny boy squirmed away from his grasp. John frowned. "Come on, Sherlock. It's all right. I'm trying to help you, not hurt you." When John stretched out a placating hand, Sherlock smacked it away and actually hissed. John pulled back with a sigh. Mary's words echoed through John's mind: _He's a little monster! _When Sherlock bared his teeth and growled, John found himself agreeing. _How the hell am I supposed to check him over when he's trying to bite me?_

Another high-pitched growl rumbled from Sherlock. "Don't touch me! It'll hurt!"

John started. "What? No, it won't, not if I'm careful. Are you afraid, Sherlock?"

Instantly, Sherlock sat up straight. "No! Fear's weak," he snapped, but his wide eyes screamed "Obviously!"

With a frown, John worried his lip. "Fear's not weak," he said quietly. "Do you want to know a secret?"

"It's not a secret if you tell," Sherlock said sullenly. He edged closer to John, though. The doctor took this as a sign to continue.

"I've been afraid before. I was afraid in Afghanistan the first time I was shot at. Do you think I'm weak?" John didn't let Sherlock respond. He really didn't want to know the boy's answer. "Do you know why I was afraid? I didn't know what to expect. No one had told me how it would feel to have bullets flying over my head. Once I knew what was coming, I felt a lot less nervous. It might help you if I explain to you what I'm looking for."  
>For a long moment, Sherlock studied John doubtfully. Then he sighed. "All right. What are you going to do to me?"<p>

John stifled his victorious grin as he pulled out his pocket torch. "Well, first I'm going to see how your pupils react to light."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Pupils?"

"The dark parts in the centers of your eyes. They allow light into the retina—the part of your eye that turns light into signals that travel to your brain and let you see." Belatedly, John remembered he was talking to a two-year-old. He opened his mouth to water the definition down and then realized that Sherlock was breathless with enthusiasm. John frowned and asked curiously, "Did you understand all that?" When Sherlock leveled another "Obviously!" look at him, John couldn't help himself. "Brilliant!"

Sherlock frowned. "What?"

"You." Sherlock continued to study John with a puzzled expression. John took the opportunity to capture Sherlock's tiny face in one hand and shine his torch in first one eye, then the other. Before Sherlock could complain, John made a pleased sound and released Sherlock's head. "Good. Your eyes seem fine."

Quickly, Sherlock's small hand shot out toward John's torch. "I want to look at your eyes!"

John winced. _Just what I need—to be blinded by a two-year-old. _Still, he handed over his torch reluctantly. Immediately, Sherlock scrambled onto John's lap. One chubby hand fisted in John's hair while the other shone the light into John's right eye. Sherlock squealed with delight. "Your pupil moved!"

"Yeah, it's supposed to do that. It's dilating to control how much light comes into my eye."

"Dilating." Just as he had with the word "Afghanistan," Sherlock whispered it several times as if to get the feel of it. He shone the light in John's other eye, gasping softly when John's left pupil reacted just the same as his right pupil had. Then Sherlock sat back on John's lap with a wondering expression. "Both of them dilated, John. You don't have a concussion."

"I should hope I don't," John muttered. "Give me my torch back. Thank you."

As he pocketed it, John expected Sherlock to climb off of his lap again. Instead, the slip of a boy kneeled up on John's legs and brought his face so close to John's that John's eyes crossed. "What next?"

"Um—I think I'm done testing you," John said weakly. "Your brain activity seems to be normal. Better than normal. Amazing."

Sherlock leaned even further forward until his forehead leaned against John's. "You're not smart, John, but you're not boring like the doctor from last night. Can you be my doctor forever?"

John rankled at the first part of Sherlock's statement—_not smart? Bugger that! I've been through med school and RAMC training. I'm smart enough!—_but his irritation lessened at the earnest pitch of Sherlock's voice. He pushed the child away from his face so he could look at him properly. "You'll be leaving the hospital in just a bit, Sherlock, and with any luck you'll be staying away for good. You shouldn't need anyone as a doctor like this."

Instead of brightening, Sherlock's face fell. He scrubbed his hands through his messy dark curls. For the first time since John had met him, the boy's words slurred together. "Need one if I 'pset Mummy 'gain."

Something in the back of John's mind whispered a warning. His voice cut a little sharper than he intended it to when he asked, "What do you mean, upset Mummy?"

Sherlock's head jerked up. Before John could catch him, the boy launched himself to the other side of the bed. "Can't tell. I fell down the stairs. I fell down all the stairs and hit my head. I upset Mummy. I upset Mummy. I always upset Mummy."

"All right, okay, it's okay. It's all fine, Sherlock." John flipped open the chart to read through the nurses' and doctor's notes on Sherlock's injury again. To John's surprise, while there was a mention of stairs, there was no explanation for how the toddler had managed to fall down them. The doctor wet his lips while he tried to think of a way to lure Sherlock back from his corner of the bed to check out the row of stitches across his head. _And maybe see if there's a handprint somewhere—_

But no. There couldn't be. Tony might have been falling to bits while he rushed out earlier, but he would have been on top of his game the night before when Sherlock Holmes was admitted to the hospital with a concussion and a gash to his forehead. Tony knew the difference between someone who had fallen down the stairs and someone who had been pushed. If anything had been wrong, he would have reported it.

Suddenly, a pair of pale eyes was right in front of John's face again. John cursed without meaning to and fell back on the bed with Sherlock on his chest. "What are you thinking about?" the boy demanded.

"Um…rugby," John invented.

Instantly, Sherlock's face fell. "Boring! Stop it. Be interesting."

"All right, what's interesting? Oh, I know. Sit up so I can get up. I'm going to have Mary call your parents to pick you up. Do you want to come to the nurses' station with me?" When Sherlock looked suspicious, John added, "I'll have one of them take your blood pressure and explain it to you."

Sherlock shook his head furiously. "No! You have to do it, John."

John resisted the impulse to roll his eyes at the imperious little figure looming over him. "Fine. Come on, you." With a groan, he climbed to his feet and swung Sherlock onto his shoulders. The toddler was much lighter than John had expected, although the boy did dig his fingers into John's scalp when the doctor began to walk. "You all right up there, Sherlock?"

Sherlock giggled. "Go, John, go!" The little voice was so enthusiastic that John had to laugh along. A voice in the back of John's head scolded, _You can't giggle! You'll bother the other patients! _John told this voice in no uncertain terms to sod off. Sherlock's incessant chatter, observations about the nurses and doctors who walked past them in the hall ("That doctor's not wearing his ring, John. You can see it's missing. He's got a funny wig, too. Why, John?"), gave him the most fun he'd had since he'd returned from Afghanistan.

Once Mary Morstan finished calling Sherlock's family, she informed John that they would arrive in a quarter of an hour. She offered to take Sherlock from John ("You have other patients, too, Dr. Watson!"), but John remembered her description of Sherlock as a monster and shook his head. Sure, the two-year-old was irritable, nosy, and generally maddening, but John realized that Sherlock Holmes might be the brightest person he knew. The thought was equal parts awe-inspiring and terrifying.

Sherlock tugged at John's military-short hair impatiently when the doctor remained still for too long. John grimaced at the sensation and then proceeded to distract the tiny genius the best he could. John was lifting Sherlock up so he could run his fingers over the Braille underneath the nurses' station sign when a sharp voice cut across the corridor. "What are you doing with my little brother?"

At the sound, Sherlock wriggled around in John's arms to face the newcomer. "Mycroft!"

The plump boy in the three-piece suit stared John down from behind the safety of an open black umbrella. John glanced outside to find the sky perfectly clear. His eyebrows crept towards his hairline when he looked back at the kid and his inexplicable umbrella. "You're Sherlock's brother?"

"Obviously." _Well, that's_ obviously _where Sherlock gets that word from_, John thought, although the umbrella boy didn't pronounce the 'b' so strongly. When John's eyebrows raised further, the boy with the umbrella's glare disappeared quickly. "I apologize. My name is Mycroft Holmes. I'm seven years old. The boy you're holding is Sherlock, my younger brother. My mother will arrive to collect both of us shortly."

John cleared his throat. "I'm—"

"Mycroft, this is Second Lieutenant John Watson of the RAMC! He was in Afghanistan, but now he works here. My doctor from last night had a family emergency, so John took his shift. He asked me how I felt and then checked my pupils with his torch to see if they dilated. Pupils are the black parts of your eyes, see?" Sherlock widened his eyes. "They let in light to your…retinas, which send messages to your brain to make pictures. John let me look at his pupils, too. They dilated fine," Sherlock assured his brother.

Now Mycroft's eyebrows were raised. A slow, indulgent smile spread across his chubby face. "That's wonderful, Sherlock. I'm glad you took the time to learn something new. You're sure you feel fine?"

Sherlock bared his teeth. John, who sensed another hissing session coming on, quickly intervened. "Erm—Mycroft, why exactly do you have an umbrella?"

Mycroft's face flushed. He studied the object carefully before he closed it and hid it behind his back. "I thought…I thought it looked rather nice, that's all."

"Oh. Well. There's nothing wrong with that, I guess. It's all fine." John sent a pointed look at Sherlock, who was giggling far too loudly at his brother's embarrassment. "Right, Sherlock?"

Sherlock let out another snort. Mycroft's eyes flashed dangerously. John tightened his grip on Sherlock and hoped beyond hope that World War III wouldn't commence immediately in the hallway of the Children's Hospital. "Boys," he said warningly.

"Mycroft! There you are! I was worried sick!"

Quite a few doctors and nurses stopped and stared as the fur-clad woman hurried down the hall in her high heels. John wondered, dumbly, if he was about to meet some relative of the Queen. Mycroft dropped his gaze as she approached. "I'm sorry, Mummy. I didn't mean to upset you. Neither did Sherlock. He's feeling much better."

"Mummy," Sherlock whispered, suddenly subdued. John made to hand the little boy to his mother, but she gestured for him to set Sherlock on his feet instead. A tremor ran through the boy. He glanced over at his older brother, who nodded slightly. "I apologize for upsetting you, Mummy."

Sherlock's mother pursed her lips. "Yes, well. Thank your doctor. Thank you, Dr.—"

"John," Sherlock mumbled. "His name is John."

John had faced down suicide bombers and insurgents without betraying a hint of fear. Sherlock's mother sent a chill down his spine. Something about the way she looked him up and down dismissively made John feel like a bug under a microscope. _I can only imagine how Sherlock feels. Jesus. _John pulled himself up to his full height and met Sherlock's mother's gaze steadily. "You have a remarkable son, Mrs. Holmes."

Mrs. Holmes's mouth fell open slightly. John resisted a smirk at the thought that he had startled her. "Do I?" she said slowly. When John nodded, she turned to study both of her sons pensively. "Yes, I suppose I do, by your standards. Thank you for your time, Doctor."

"You're welcome." Although he faced Mrs. Holmes when he said it, John directed the words towards the two silent boys beside her. "Stay away from staircases, Sherlock. Be careful."

Inexplicably, Sherlock flinched. He watched John with unreadable pale eyes while his mother tugged him away toward the elevator. Just before they climbed aboard, Mycroft turned slightly to wave his umbrella. John raised a hand in return. He barely heard Sherlock call, "Good-bye, John."

For a full half-hour after the Holmeses left the Children's Hospital, John stood in the hall, lost in thought. When Mary Morstan finally reached around her desk to shake him out of his trance, all he could think to say was, "What the bloody hell was all that?"

* * *

><p>It's a thing! I wrote a thing! This story will follow John's adventures with little Sherlock and Mycroft and will later include Lestrade. Sophie (teacrumpetsandjam from tumblr) is my official poker and prodder when it comes to this story, so I must thank her! I'll update as often as I can. I have the entire plot planned out and the final chapter written. I just have to pen all the parts in between.<p>

I've made a playlist of songs to go along with this story. You can find it at ht tp:/www. you tube .c om /pla ylist?list=PL63CE EDDB89994D38& feature=mh_lolz . (Remove the spaces.) I'll add more songs as I write.


	2. Fractured

John Watson didn't forget Sherlock Holmes over the next few weeks. He doubted he could ever erase the memory of the curious, stubborn, brilliant little boy, but he quickly pushed it away. Tony's girlfriend came away from her car accident with permanent brain damage. When the hospital agreed to give Tony as much time off as he needed, John stepped forward to pick up his shifts. The army doctor ended up sleeping on a cot at the hospital so he could be present at all times. He played peek-a-boo with epileptic babies by day and walked the halls with crying cancer patients by night. As the weeks blurred together, John even forgot to eat. He just didn't have the time to devote to thinking about any kid who wasn't present in the hospital.

"Dr. Watson! Dr. Watson, you're needed in trauma."

John passed a hand over his face and resisted the urge to growl _what now? _Of course something would interrupt his breakfast—or was it lunch? Somehow he managed to nod at the nurse instead of snapping at him. "What room?"

"221. Suspected broken bones, but nobody can get close enough to the kid to check him over. He keeps _hissing_. Says he only wants 'his John' to check him over like last time. Since you're the only doctor named John here, we figured he had to mean you."

Instantly, John bit back the excuse he'd been formulating. "Sherlock!"

"Yeah, that's the kid's name, Sherlock Holmes. Bit of a weird one—"

"Yes, thank you," John called over his shoulder as he jogged to the stairs. Taking them two at a time was faster than waiting for the ancient lift to rattle down to the first floor. The second floor was chaos, but years of military training helped John to swerve around obstacles without slowing his pace. Just like last time, he could hear a voice from 221 all the way down the hall: "Come on, little man, we won't hurt you! Let us check your arm!" John rolled his eyes. _Don't those idiots know how to handle Sherlock Holmes?_

At first, John felt like laughing at the scene that greeted him inside room 221: a nurse hovered anxiously at the foot of the bed while a two-year-old hissed at her from the head of it. Then John got a glimpse of the way Sherlock's right arm dangled lifelessly from his tiny form. His heart skipped a beat. "Sherlock."

Immediately, the little boy stopped hissing. When he looked up to see John pushing his way past the nurse, his eyes lit up. "John!" Sherlock launched towards the army doctor and then fell back on the pillows with a cry of pain when his distended arm hit the mattress. How the kid managed not to scream, John had no idea. Even he'd shed an accidental tear or two when his shoulder was dislocated in Afghanistan, and he was a soldier. Somehow, though, while Sherlock whimpered slightly, his pale eyes remained stubbornly dry.

John winced. "Careful with your arm, Sherlock! Can I sit on the bed?"

Sherlock scowled. "Obviously."

John sighed. "Will you bite me if I do?"

Sherlock considered this before shaking his head slowly. When John sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, Sherlock added quickly, "Don't touch me!"

"All right! I won't touch you." John struggled to think of a way to coax Sherlock closer. _He needed things explained to him last time, but damn if he has enough time for that now. His arm's got to be out of socket, maybe broken, too. It needs to be popped back into socket and x-rayed, then set so the bones can grow back together properly—oh._

"Sherlock," John said slowly, "what do you know about bones?"

Instantly, Sherlock brightened. "You have lots of them inside of you, and you have to drink milk to keep them strong. When you die, your skin falls off and you turn into a skeleton, which is made of bones! I like bones."

A grin tugged at the edge of John's mouth. _Fantastic. _"I thought you might like them. Would you like to learn more about them?"

Sherlock nodded eagerly. "Yes, John! Tell me!"

"Okay. All right. Well…this," John reached out and tapped Sherlock's head, "is your cranium. It protects your brain from damage. When you're born, it's in several parts, but by now they've fused together."

Sherlock stretched out one chubby fist to rap John's head sharply. "Cr-ain-ium."

John touched a finger to Sherlock's tiny jaw. "Mandible."

With a smile, Sherlock slapped his left hand against John's cheek. "Mandible."

"Clavicle."

"Clavicle," Sherlock repeated, running his left hand's fingers over John's shoulder.

By then, the tiny boy was nearly on John's lap. The doctor gritted his teeth and reached carefully for Sherlock's mangled right arm. "Humerus—"

Sherlock inhaled sharply and scrambled away from John. Before he could make his escape, John caught him around the waist and trapped him on his lap. "All right. All right. It's fine, Sherlock. Does your humerus hurt?"

The toddler bit his lip and nodded. "And the rest of my arm hurts, too!"

"Radius and ulna," John murmured. "All right. Sherlock, I think your arm's out of socket. Your bones might also be broken, but I can't tell for sure unless I do an x-ray. Until I do an x-ray of your arm, I won't be able to fix it. Will you let me x-ray your arm? I'll let you look at the pictures when I'm done with them."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "I can look at my bones?"

"Sure. We have to get the x-ray first."

"All right."

Behind John, the nurse sighed with relief. "Good. Come here, sweetheart. I need to give you some pain medicine."

"John can do it—"

"No, Sherlock, let the nurse do it."

To John's surprise, Sherlock relented with a sigh. "Fine, but you have to stay here."

"Sure. I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock."

Once the nurse had convinced Sherlock to take two tiny pills, she reached out her arms towards him. "Let me carry you down to radiology, baby—"

"No!" Sherlock shrieked. "I want John! I want John to do it! I want John!"

John barely caught the boy when he launched himself into the doctor's arms. Sherlock yelped when his damaged arm slammed into John's side. Quickly, John pulled Sherlock's unbroken side closer to him. "Okay, okay, Sherlock. I'll carry you. I've got you. I'm not leaving."

As John stood up with him, Sherlock buried his face in John's shoulder. John wasn't sure if he could classify the gesture as affectionate or even fearful, since Sherlock seemed intent on sniffing him for reasons unknown to anyone but the little genius himself. Still, there was something strangely comforting about the way Sherlock's dark curls brushed against John's cheek while he carried the boy down to radiology.

Enough pain medicine pumped through Sherlock's veins by the time he lay underneath the x-ray machine that he hardly questioned the procedure. His pale eyes followed the movement of the machine curiously for a while. Then, when John lifted him up again, his eyelids fluttered shut. "All done? Look at x-rays?" he mumbled.

"I'm going to," John murmured. "I have to put you back in your bed first, though. I can't carry you and look at your x-rays properly."

As they approached room 221 again, Sherlock made a protesting noise and clung to John's neck with his good arm. "I want to see them. You said I could see, John!"

"Only after I'm done with them. Come on, Sherlock, let go—"

"Listen to your doctor, Sherlock. Let go of John!"

John startled badly at the sound of Mycroft's voice. Sherlock's older brother leaned against his closed umbrella at the foot of Sherlock's hospital bed. When Sherlock twisted around to scowl at him, Mycroft pointed the brolly at the smaller boy. "Behave yourself, Sherlock. You don't want to hurt your arm more."

"My humerus," Sherlock snapped. "Right, John?"

"Yes, your humerus. I'm going to look at pictures of your humerus once you let go of me." Before Sherlock could protest again, John pried his miniscule fingers away from his shirt collar and laid the toddler on the bed. When Sherlock hissed at him in reply, John shook his head. "Don't hiss at me. You know I'm right. I'll be back as soon as possible. Try to sleep a bit, all right? You'll feel better once you do."

"I'll take care of you while your John's gone," Mycroft said earnestly. Sherlock's scowl deepened, but he scooted up the bed to make room for Mycroft, who sat down far too primly for a seven-year-old boy. The older boy saluted John with his umbrella. "I'll watch over him, Dr. Watson. Go do your job."

John wasn't accustomed to taking orders from pudgy primary school children, but he found himself saluting easily in return. "Behave yourself," he told Sherlock sternly. Then he jogged up to radiology and turned on the light behind the x-ray images. "All right. What do we have here?"

Sherlock's shoulder didn't appear to be dislocated. _Thank God for that. He's cranky enough as it is. I don't want to imagine trying to pop Sherlock's arm back into socket right now. _

John's relief faded when he turned his attention to Sherlock's bones. The humerus had been snapped in half; while the ulna had escaped this fate, hairline fractures criss-crossed it and the radius in more places than John cared to count. Rage built in John beneath his incredulousness. _Sherlock should be screaming, crying, in shock! Jesus Christ, it's like he's used to this kind of injury._

_ Like he's used to it…_

"What do you have there, John?"

John nodded brusquely at the figure in the doorway. "Sarah. It's a two-year-old's x-rays. Sherlock Holmes. He came in a few weeks ago with a concussion and a crack in his forehead—apparently he fell down the stairs. No one's bothered explaining to me why his arm's been snapped this time, but I think I can guess."

The radiologist moved closer with a frown. "What are you thinking?"

John clenched and relaxed his fists once, twice, three times. _I will not shout. I will not throw things. I am a soldier. I can remain calm. _When he finally spoke, his voice sounded too light, too conversational, but John couldn't be bothered to care. "Did you know that in Afghanistan, some of the insurgents don't kill their captives? They have a little game they like to play with them instead. See, they work out which arm is the captive's good arm. Then…" John reached for Sarah's arm. Gently, he mimed tugging it out of socket and then snapping it again and again. "It never gets the chance to heal properly, see? Great punishment. Really damn smart on their part."

"This isn't Afghanistan, John."

A muscle in John's jaw jumped. "Oh, I hadn't noticed."

"I know you haven't been back for long—"

"You're my psychiatrist now? Nice to know."

"John." John could almost hear Sarah grinding her teeth. She took a deep breath before speaking. "It's not like you to jump to conclusions. Stop and think for a minute, all right? Are you listening to me? Stop and think about what you're saying. You've only just looked at these x-rays. I know you're concerned about your patient, so do the right thing and think about what else these breaks could be."

With a groan, John pinched the bridge of his nose. It wasn't like him to jump to conclusions, it really wasn't, but right now this didn't feel like much of a leap. "You look at the x-rays, Sarah. You look at them, and then you look at Sherlock, and then you tell me how you think a two-year-old boy managed to snap his arm like that."

For a long few minutes, Sarah studied the x-rays. John tried to, but now that he'd brought up the memory, his mind kept carrying him back to the desert. The achingly hot sun beat down on the sand while he pinned a trembling American soldier and popped his arm back into socket as best he could. The man retched before he dragged himself to his knees, forcing out a tale of broken arms and beatings and the bone-deep guilt that came of not knowing what happened to the rest of his team.

Sarah's sharp inhale startled John back to the present. "What?"

"You know we can't technically assume anything until you check his arm for bruising."

John nodded. "I'll do that while I'm setting it."

"Do you think it was his mum or his dad?"

"I don't know. Last time he was here, Sherlock said something about 'upsetting Mummy,' but with how clean that break is…" John's face twisted. "I've seen his mother. She's terrifying, looks like the fucking Queen…" John's gaze darkened more. "…but I can't see her being strong enough to break Sherlock's arm like that. It would take someone with more muscle."

"Have you met with either of his parents today?"

John shook his head. "It's just like last time. His mum didn't show up until it was time for Sherlock to be released from the hospital. She sent his seven-year-old brother to keep an eye on him instead."

Sarah frowned. "Well, I'll call their mother in and see if there's a father on the records. You go take care of that little boy."

"Right."

As John turned to leave, Sarah caught him by the shoulder. "Remember, calm down. You don't want Sherlock to sense that you're upset."

"Calm down?" When Sarah fixed him with a stern look, John took a deep breath. "Right. Calm. Calm is good. I have to stay calm for Sherlock."

"There you go."

In the hallway, Sarah and John went opposite directions; John followed the other doctor with his eyes until she reached the nurses' station and knocked on the glass partition. Outside of room 221, John paused. Though he didn't know what Sherlock's father looked like, he imagined a dark figure looming over a shaking, terrified Sherlock. Maybe Sherlock had upset his mother—by being too curious and breaking something valuable or setting one of her furs on fire or driving his older brother to distraction—but he was just a child! He was just a little kid! His curious nature wasn't a curse. It was a gift! Sherlock was brilliant!

Now, John was nothing like Sherlock. He'd never been the very top of any of his classes, although he'd come close in medical school and was one of the best fighters in his unit in Afghanistan. He wasn't nearly as fantastic as little Sherlock was. John's dad hadn't been the best man, either, not when he'd been drinking, but the most he'd done was take a belt to John. He'd never broken his bones or—or thrown him down the stairs!—because that _had_ to be why Sherlock had been so wary of explaining his fall last time. He'd been pushed. His parents had pushed him down the stairs.

_He's just a fucking kid!  
><em>

_Okay, Watson, deep breath. Suck it up, Lieutenant. You're not helping the kid like this. Hold that anger in, and do your job._

When John opened the door to Sherlock's room, both Holmes boys looked up quickly. Mycroft stopped talking to Sherlock abruptly. His keen gaze met John's worriedly. "Well?"

The fear in Mycroft's voice put John off-balance. Without meaning to, John studied older boy for any sign of unusual injuries before he spoke. "Your brother has a broken bone and a few fractures."

"Where?" Sherlock demanded from his seat on Mycroft's lap. "Which one is broken?"

For once, John didn't smile at the little boy's enthusiasm. "Your right humerus. Your right radius and ulna are fractured in multiple places."

Sherlock smiled triumphantly. "Knew it. It hurts a lot."

John quickly noted Sherlock's slurred words. _The pain medicine must really have kicked in. _Just to be sure, he asked Sherlock, "Does it hurt more than it did before the nurse gave you medicine?" When Sherlock shook his head negatively, John added, "Less?"

Sherlock nodded. "Still hurts, though. I'm tired, John."

"Good. That's good. Once I've set your arm, you can sleep for as long as you'd like."

"Set it?"

"Yeah, in plaster, so it'll heal properly. You have to take off your shirt first, though. Otherwise I can't get the cast on your arm."

"All of it? Take all of it off?"

"Either that, or…" John eyed Sherlock's fine silk button-down enviously before admitting, "I could cut off one sleeve."

Mycroft's eyes darkened. "Just one sleeve, please," he instructed. "Sherlock will be in too much pain otherwise."

"You'd better hold him still, then." Once Mycroft restrained Sherlock, John crouched in front of him and pulled out his pocketknife. Sherlock gasped appreciatively at the sight of the blade. Thankfully, he refrained from squirming while John stripped away the cloth around his injured arm.

As the sleeve fell away, John's grip on the knife tightened. Bruises like fingerprints marred Sherlock's porcelain arm in the perfect places to validate John's theory: darker welts on the upper arm, where someone with hands bigger than John's had grabbed and then snapped, and lighter marks on the lower arm, where Sherlock's attacker had found a less firm grip. John swallowed tightly but couldn't repress a curse. "Oh, Sherlock."

Sherlock's brow knitted. "John?"

"He's all right," Mycroft assured his befuddled brother. "He's just…"

"…just glad you got to the hospital when you did," John finished for him. He forced a smile. "I'll be able to fix this right up. Now," he said as he reached for the plaster, "would you like me to explain this to you, or…?"

Sherlock barely nodded. His eyelids slowly slid shut. Then he let out a tiny sigh. Mycroft made a surprised sound when his younger brother's head fell back against his chest. "He fell asleep! I've never seen him fall asleep like that before."

John scowled. "I doubt he'll sleep for long. There's only so much pain medicine can do. You might not want to hold him while I do this, Mycroft."

The boy's eyes widened with concern. "Will it injure him more if I do?"

"No, but Sherlock might injure _you_. He could kick or bite. I'm sure he'll flail around a bit. This isn't going to be fun for him, that's for sure."

"Oh. In that case, I'll keep holding him, thank you." Mycroft smiled slightly at John's curious look. "Sherlock is my younger brother. I worry about him constantly. I would prefer to stay close to him if that's all right with you, Doctor."

"Of course it is. You're a good big brother for doing that, Mycroft." As Mycroft flushed at the unexpected praise, John muttered, "Harry wouldn't have done it, that's for sure."

Mycroft's jaw dropped. "Your older brother wouldn't have stayed with you when you were injured?" Before John could correct him—_dammit, Harriet, you make my life so difficult sometimes!—_the boy continued, as if reciting from a book, "It is my duty to stay with Sherlock! He is my younger brother, likely the only one I will ever have, and therefore it is my responsibility to watch over him at all times."

"What about your mum and dad? Shouldn't they be watching over both of you?"

Instantly, Mycroft's expression froze. His gaze slipped away from John's, but not before the doctor caught the panic in the boy's eyes. "They have…more important things to worry about."

"More important than your brother? More important than you?" John laid the first of the cast on Sherlock's broken arm. The boy's yelp distracted John from finishing his thought. _What could be more important than taking care of your kids? _

_ Especially Sherlock._

_ Even Mycroft._

After Sherlock's arm was bound, the little boy sank into an uneasy sleep with Mycroft's umbrella spread over his head. The umbrella's owner stood a silent vigil at the foot of Sherlock's bed. John watched them both for as long as he could. He'd already ignored his pager twice. When it once again beeped insistently, he sighed. "I have to check on another patient. I'll be back as soon as that's through. I promise."

"Don't promise," Mycroft said quietly. "Don't promise something if you can't keep your promise. It isn't kind."

"I won't. I'll be back."

Mycroft studied John out of the corner of his eye. John pretended not to notice and turned to leave. Before he could reach the door, though, a chubby hand slipped into his. Mycroft pulled away with a blush as soon as John faced him again. John raised an eyebrow at him. "What?"

For once, Mycroft seemed lost for words. "I, um." He cleared his throat. "Thank you for being so patient with my brother. I know he can be…obnoxious."

"Sure he can be. So can everyone else. It's all right. He's a brilliant kid. So are you, you know." John snorted at Mycroft's stunned expression. "Yeah, you're both amazing. Quite…spectacular. I think you might be two of the most intelligent people I've ever met."

Mycroft's stammered thank-you disappeared as a disapproving voice sounded from the doorway. "You obviously haven't kept the best company, then, Doctor."

John's spine stiffened. He turned slowly to hide his unease. The man in the shadows was tall and imposing. _His hands are huge. Bloody hell. _He stifled the reflex to reach for a non-existent gun. Illegal, shooting people here, even if he did have his rifle. Bit unfortunate, that. Unconsciously, John squared his shoulders before he looked up into the giant man's icy gaze. "Excuse me, Mr. Holmes?"

"Very good, Dr. Watson. You did get through medical school on your own merit, then. You're quite short for military training, though. Is that what you bribed your way into, or has the RAMC _lowered_ their standards?" While John coloured, Mr. Holmes looked over his head. "Hello, Mycroft. Thank you for watching your brother. I will handle everything from here. You may go down to the cafeteria now."

Instantly, Mycroft flinched. "I'm not hungry," he whispered to the floor.

"Really? How uncharacteristic. And how is your little brother? Sherlock, are you really asleep?" When the toddler didn't reply, Mr. Holmes cocked his head.

"Intriguing. So it takes stress combined with pain medicine stronger than paracetamol to get you to sleep properly. I should keep that in mind for future reference."

"No. You should stay away from him," John growled.

Mr. Holmes' mouth quirked in amusement. "Sherlock is my son. I will do with him as I wish."

"No, you won't!" When Mr. Holmes stepped closer to the hospital bed, John placed himself between Sherlock's father and Sherlock's prone form. Adrenaline forced his hands into tight fists. "I'd leave now if I were you."

Mr. Holmes' eyebrows crept upward. "Oh? What will you do to me if I don't?"

"John's a soldier," Mycroft said suddenly from his spot in the corner. "He's killed people, Father. He's dangerous! Don't test him."

"Dangerous? This man?"

"Oh, God, yes," John snarled. "I am dangerous to bastards who hurt little kids. Now get out of this room."

Mr. Holmes sniffed. "Is that a threat?"

John's gaze wandered around the room for a moment before he stood up even straighter, his back a rigid line. "Yes, sir, it is a threat. I'm glad you're intelligent enough to have noticed. Good deduction."

"I could have you arrested for that, you know, threatening a government official and all."

John shrugged slightly. "Doesn't bother me."

"Why not? Enlighten me, Second Lieutenant. An arrest could get you discharged."

"Yeah, well, some things are worth that risk." John shot a look at Sherlock, slumbering on in the hospital bed, and Mycroft, staring at the two men with his mouth hanging open. When he turned back to Mr. Holmes, his voiced cracked through the room. "An arrest could get you locked up. Good riddance."

"And why would I be arrested?"

John let a wild grin spread over his face. He didn't trust his voice not to squeak, so instead he silently tilted his head in the direction of the doorway, where Dr. Sarah Sawyer and a sturdy-looking DS from Scotland Yard waited with handcuffs for Mr. Holmes.

* * *

><p>Author's notes:<p>

This story is not really Britpicked. I'm about as American as they come (Midwest, baby!), but I've tried my best to keep this story on its side of the pond. Tell me if I've messed anything up too badly, and I'll fix it. I'm also not a doctor or a soldier. I've never been to Afghanistan. All I know of these occupations and that place comes from the Internet and my friends who are U.S. Marines. If I'm inaccurate in these areas, tell me what to fix and how to fix it, and I will.

Ages: I know that, in canon, Mycroft is seven years older than Sherlock. However, for this story, I thought he ought to be a bit younger. Most nine-year-old boys I know wouldn't trust John as willingly as I need Mycroft to trust John. Some seven-year-olds might. Sherlock is two. Mycroft is seven. John is in his twenties. I'll tell you more about everyone's ages as it's needed.

Oh, by the way, HI! I'm Icey, or Kirsti if you prefer. Nice to meet all of you. There are so many of you! I'm surprised. I'm just writing this because the plot won't leave me alone, and neither will the lovely teacrumpetsandjam (find her on tumblr. She's brilliant). Thank you for reading!


	3. Advantages and Disadvantages

John only had a moment to relish the look of surprise on Mr. Holmes' face before the DS pushed him into the wall none-too-gently and cuffed him. Mr. Holmes hissed something at the DS. Whatever he said, it made the Detective Sergeant's face harden. He shoved Mr. Holmes unceremoniously out the door to where another, lower-ranking Scotland Yarder stood. "Give him a phone call if he wants one," he growled. "I need to talk to the doctor and the kids."

Almost imperceptibly, Mycroft took a half-step back into the shadows. John shot him what he hoped was a reassuring look before the Detective Sergeant stepped back inside the room. The man gave John a curt nod and held out his hand to shake. "I'm Detective Sergeant Greg Lestrade from the Scotland Yard."

"Dr. John Watson, Second Lieutenant, RAMC."

Lestrade's dark eyes widened fractionally. John thought he saw his spine straighten before he spoke again. "Are you Sherlock Holmes' doctor?"

"Yeah, now and the last time he was in here."

Lestrade's frown deepened as he pulled up a metal chair. John sat slowly in the one opposite it, closer to Sherlock's prone form, just in case. For now, the toddler didn't stir, even as his elder brother retreated further into the shadows behind the protection of his umbrella. The Detective Sergeant cast him a curious glance before looking back at John seriously. "He was in here before?" John heard the click of a tape recorder. "Why?"

John cleared his throat. _You might be telling this all to a judge now. Get those boys away from their dad, fast! _"Sherlock Holmes arrived at the hospital three weeks ago with a minor head injury apparently caused by a fall down the stairs. Although the cut on his forehead was stitched easily…" John gingerly brushed Sherlock's wayward curls out of the way so the detective could clearly see the neat stitches across the boy's pale forehead, "he stayed at the hospital for a while to make sure he didn't have a concussion. That's when I came in. His original doctor had to leave due to a family emergency, so I examined Sherlock for a concussion."

"And how was he?"

"Fine. Great. Brilliant, actually. No concussion, that's for sure." John spared the sleeping boy a faint grin before he addressed Lestrade's bemused frown.

"Sherlock Holmes is a very intelligent boy. Stubborn, but brilliant. Anyway, after a few hours, his mother and brother came to pick him up, and Sherlock went home. I didn't think much about him after that, to be honest. I was too busy with other patients. There was only one thing that really bothered me."

Lestrade leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. "Yeah? What's that?"

"When I asked Sherlock how he fell down the stairs, he clammed up. I couldn't get him to shut up before that, honestly, but the moment I mentioned the stairs he clammed up. All he would tell me was that he 'upset Mummy.'" When Lestrade opened his mouth to ask the obvious, John talked over him. "Yeah, I wondered about it. How couldn't I? I looked at Sherlock's file to see if anyone had left notes about his parents, but there wasn't anything. I've known Tony—Sherlock's old doctor—since before I enlisted. I trusted him. If he hadn't wrote anything about Sherlock being abused, then I assumed Sherlock was just…I just assumed," John growled.

The detective nodded slowly. "So Sherlock went home. When was he readmitted?"

"Early this morning. His right arm looked dislocated, but he wouldn't let anyone get a good look at it. Believe me," John said at Lestrade's skeptical expression, "he can be a terror when he wants to be. We gave him some pain medicine and x-rayed his arm, then let him sleep while we waited for the x-rays to come back. Multiple fractures to the lower bones, a clean break in the upper one. It's nothing a child could do to himself, not one so young, not even falling from something. It would take someone with a lot more strength than Sherlock has to break that bone so expertly."

Lestrade's eyebrows rose. "Expertly?"

For a moment, John squeezed his eyes shut and willed his anger back. "Yes. I've seen breaks exactly like that before in Afghanistan. A particular group of insurgents did that to their American captives in order to disable them. It worked."

"But why do you believe Sherlock's father did this to him? This is England, not Afghanistan."

John's jaw tightened. "Terrible things can happen here too, can't they? That's why Scotland Yard exists." _Easy there, Watson, _John instantly reprimanded himself. _Lestrade's on your side now. Don't be snapping at him. _He took a long, deep breath before continuing more calmly, "I did think of that. That's why I had Dr. Sawyer study the x-rays as well. She came to the same conclusion I did based on the break pattern."

Slowly, DS Lestrade nodded. "That's still circumstanstial evidence, though."

"The fingerprint bruises on Sherlock's arms aren't!" Behind John, Sherlock stirred at the sharp note in John's voice. The doctor lowered it to a vehement rumble. "As soon as he's ready for a cast change, I can show them to you. They'll have faded some, but they'll still be there. If I hadn't set his arm when I did, Sherlock could have had permanent damage to that arm."

"That's all right. I understand that. What size would you say the fingerprints were?" When John scowled, Lestrade rolled his eyes at him and nodded at the tape recorder as if to say, _Yes, I know it's a stupid question, but I'm not the only one who'll hear this. _

_What size do you think they were? Bloody—_John swallowed those words. "Adult male, definitely. A bigger man."

"And you believe that Sherlock Holmes' father is responsible?" Another _work with me _look from Lestrade barely kept John from shouting in frustration. _In Afghanistan, I could have ended this an hour ago! There's a little beaten boy in that hospital bed behind me, can't you see? Do you actually care at all?_

Sharply, John nodded. "Absolutely. Sherlock's terrified of both of his parents. So's his brother. It's not normal. It's not natural, and neither is that cut on Sherlock's head or the fractures in his bones. I'm sure his father's the one responsible. Absolutely."

With a sigh, DS Lestrade stopped the tape recorder. "Thank you for bearing with me, Lieutenant Watson. I know it's a frustrating process, but that's the only way I can help these boys. Speaking of." He turned towards the nervous figure behind the umbrella in the corner and beckoned Mycroft with one hand. "Come over here. Let me talk to you. What's your name?"

Mycroft swallowed audibly before lowering his umbrella. As he cautiously approached Lestrade, he studied the Detective Sergeant with a mixture of doubt and disdain. When he reached John's side, Mycroft closed his umbrella and held out his hand to Lestrade solemnly. "My name is Mycroft Holmes."

To John's surprise, Lestrade hid his astonishment well. The detective gave Mycroft a short nod and shook his hand firmly. "Detective Sergeant Gregory Lestrade of the Scotland Yard. Pleased to meet you."

"I am pleased to meet you as well."

"I like your umbrella."

Instantly, Mycroft froze. He glared at Lestrade icily, only to seem to realize that the detective was serious. The boy's eyes widened as sat gingerly on the edge of his younger brother's hospital bed. "Truly?"

"Yeah! It's cool. Classy. You're making me feel underdressed." Lestrade made a show of attempting to straighten his rumpled shirt. "What d'you reckon? Do you think I should start wearing a suit like yours? It's spiffy."

A shy smile flitted across Mycroft's face. "I don't chase after criminals," he pointed out softly. "It wouldn't be…practical…for you to wear a suit like mine to work, Detective Sergeant."

Lestrade sighed. "Yeah, I suppose not. Still feel underdressed, though. Do you wear that to school, or…?"

"No, we have a uniform." Mycroft's rather Sherlockian scowl communicated his displeasure with the aforementioned uniform. John almost snorted at the resemblance. Instead, he stood up to take Sherlock's pulse and temperature while Mycroft continued to speak earnestly with Lestrade. "The headmaster does not allow me to bring my umbrella, either. It is…rather distressing at times."

"I can understand that. Oppression's never fun. At least you can wear whatever you like at home, right?"

John tried to concentrate on Sherlock's fluttering pulse instead of Mycroft's uncertain response. "Well—oh. Yes. Of course. I mean—I have to dress properly so Sherlock will follow my example. I am the older brother, after all."

At that, Lestrade snorted. "Not a lot of older brothers think that way. Mine didn't, that's for sure. You and Sherlock are close, yeah?"

"Well, sometimes. He is quite intelligent, like me, but he is much more stubborn. He worries me constantly," Mycroft said with a petulant sigh.

John had to bite his lip to keep from chuckling. Behind him, Lestrade seemed to have a similar reaction. "Oh, really? Why?"

"Don't laugh when I'm serious. It isn't kind," Mycroft snapped, stung. "Sherlock upsets Mummy far too much. He is my younger brother, likely the only one I will ever have, and therefore it is my responsibility to watch over him at all times. I…I fail him sometimes. In fact, I fail him a lot. I'm not a very good older brother, you see."

John's spine stiffened. _Not a good older brother? How many seven-year-olds stay by their brother's bedside all day? How many older brothers hold their toddler brothers still while they get their arm put in plaster? Jesus, Mycroft, don't you say anything about not being a good older brother!_

Lestrade seemed to concur with John's silent argument. "No, I don't see. What do you mean, you fail Sherlock?"

Mycroft shivered. "When he upsets Mummy, I should stop him. I should stop him before he gets himself into trouble, before Father—"

"Mycroft! What have I taught you about talking about people behind their backs?"

Everyone in the room jumped when Mrs. Holmes swept through the open door. In the hospital bed, Sherlock stirred; John pressed a reassuring hand to both Holmes boys' shoulders while Lestrade stood to face the formidable woman in furs. She rounded on her elder son first. "What are you doing, sitting like that? Stand up! You'll wrinkle your suit. What on earth were you saying about your father? That was rude, Mycroft, inexcusably rude!"

Mycroft blinked. "But Detective Sergeant Lestrade asked—"

"Yes, I heard your father had some mix-up with the police. It's all been solved now, though, dear, don't you worry about it."

"Hang on. What do you mean, solved?" John stepped between Mycroft and Mrs. Holmes with a frown. "Your husband's been arrested for child abuse—"

"—mistakenly, I'm afraid, Second Lieutenant."

Mr. Holmes' drawl made Mycroft flinch violently. In his doze, Sherlock shivered. John reached a steadying hand back to the tiny boy before he pulled himself up to his full height. "No, it wasn't mistaken. I know what I saw on Sherlock's x-rays. I know what fingerprint bruises look like. You snapped Sherlock's arm! You're—"

"That'll do, Dr. Watson." Another man ducked into the room. By the way Lestrade straightened his shoulders, John guessed it must have been his direct superior. _The DI, then. What the hell is he playing at? _"I've found no evidence of any abuse—"

John's jaw dropped. "There's a mangled two-year-old in this hospital bed!—or are you blind?"

"Lieutenant." Lestrade shot John a warning glance before he turned to face the DI. "With all due respect, sir, there is evidence of abuse. At the least, we need to put the boys in protective custody overnight."

Beside Lestrade, Mycroft's shoulders slumped in relief. He stiffened again when the DI shook his head. "I see no reason for that. There has been no abuse. Both of the children can go home with their parents today."

"No!" John growled. "Are you _blind_, Detective Inspector? Sherlock's arm is fractured in so many places—he needs to stay here at least overnight, if not for longer! Do you want his arm to be permanently stunted? That's what'll happen if you let him go home! Best case scenario if you force Sherlock to leave the hospital now, that's what'll happen!"

"I said that'll _do_, Dr. Watson."

"Sir, he is a doctor. He knows what he's talking about. We should listen—"

"Lestrade. That's enough."

Slowly, Lestrade's voice trailed off. The DS glared at his superior for a long minute before he dropped his furious gaze to the tile floor. His fists clenched just as much as John's did during the ensuing silence. The DI pinched the bridge of his nose, as if to ward off a headache. "All right, Mr. Holmes. You can take your sons and leave."

"Thank you, Detective Inspector Gregson," Mr. Holmes said smoothly. As he brushed past John's tense form to lift Sherlock from his hospital bed, John could swear he heard the man murmur, "Didn't your captain teach you not to stick your nose in other people's private affairs?"

Before John could counter with a smart remark, Sherlock blinked awake. His face lit up when he caught sight of his favorite army doctor. "John, I'm awake now. I want to see my x-rays! You said I—Oh." The sound whooshed out of Sherlock like all the air coming out of a balloon. His pale eyes widened when his father lifted him none-too-gently off the bed. "Father…But John-!"

"You don't need John, do you, Sherlock?" When Sherlock scowled in disagreement, Mr. Holmes tightened his hold on the squirming toddler. Sherlock's mouth fell opened in a silent yelp when the movement jostled his broken arm. John instinctively leapt forward to take the boy back from his father, but Mr. Holmes held Sherlock just out of his reach. "No, I believe you've spent far too much time with my son already, Doctor Watson." As he turned towards the door, Mr. Holmes smiled thinly down at Mycroft. "Does Sherlock _need_ Doctor Watson, Mycroft?"

Quickly, Mycroft shook his head. "No, Father. Sherlock doesn't need John at all."

"And why is that?" Mummy Holmes prodded as the whole family made its way into the hall. "Why doesn't Sherlock need him? Tell your brother, Mycroft."

John could barely hear Mycroft's dull reply from outside the room. The boy spoke as if by rote. "You don't need John because caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

Silence reigned for a minute. Then, just as the Holmes family reached the elevator, Sherlock began to shriek. "No! I want to go back! No! John! John! I want John! I want John! I want my John! John!"

John trembled while he listened to the cries die away. Then he rounded on the DI. "What the hell are you playing at? I'm not mad! I'm not imagining things! Those boys are abused! You're a f—" Lestrade's elbow connected with John's ribs hard enough to knock the curse away from his mouth. The doctor shot Lestrade a dark look before he said in a quiet, dangerous voice. "Fine. You won't do anything. You're useless. That's fine. It's all fine. I'm not. If Sherlock Holmes ends up in this hospital again, so help me God, either you'll put his father in prison or I'll put him in hell."

Unconciously, the DI took a step back. "Mr. Holmes told me you were a dangerous man, Dr. Watson. I didn't think to believe him until now. You just threatened a DI."

"And you just neglected your duty as a DI, so I think we're even. I'm only dangerous to people who let children suffer like that! Just—just so I know, do you actually care about them at all?"

For a moment, The Detective Inspector hesitated. Then he shook his head. "I'll forgive you that one, Dr. Watson. You're tired and upset. You'd be better off going home and forgetting about all this, huh?" Before John could respond, the DI walked out of the room. Over his shoulder, he called to Lestrade, "Forget all this, Greg. We're done here. Take the night off."

"Forget-?"

"That's not a request, Greg. That's an order. Let it go. It's more important than you can imagine."

"What do you mean, more important?" John yelled after the DI's retreating form. "Damn coward! And you," he growled, rounding on Lestrade, "what was all that about? Didn't you see how frightened Mycroft was? Were you paying attention to him at all?"

"Yes, I was, all right, but if I say stuff like that to Gregson's face, he'll fire me! I've got a family too, Lieutenant Watson." When John took a furious step forward, Lestrade held up his hands in surrender. "Hey, I don't like this either. Not at all. I do want to help. I will help! I just can't tell Gregson where to step off. What would happen to you if you did that to your captain?" When John squared his jaw silently, Lestrade sighed. "Exactly. Look, I will help you, I promise. Here."

Quickly, Lestrade scribbled a number on a scrap of paper. He held it out to John like a peace offering. "It goes straight to my desk." Lestrade's eyes darkened. "I know you're right, Lieutenant Watson. Something's wrong here, and sooner or later it's going to get those two boys into a whole hell of trouble. Call me if you see anything, all right? Gregson might be a conceited, brainwashed ass, but I'm not. I'm not him."

John reached for the paper, then hesitated. He studied Lestrade suspiciously. "Why would you help? You didn't help before."

"I tried, all right? I'm trying! I'm a Detective Sergeant. You're right. It is my job to protect people. I take that seriously. Now take my number!" Reluctantly, John took the slip of paper from Lestrade. The detective nodded gratefully and turned to leave. He paused in the doorway, shoulders tense. "I have a three-year-old daughter. Maria. She's gorgeous. She's sweet. I can't imagine hurting her like that." Lestrade turned to scowl at John. "I'll put any bastard who would in his place. I swear. I'm on Sherlock and Mycroft's side, one hundred percent."

Finally, John let his fists unclench. Lestrade was an ally. John could tell that much now. He would need all the help he could get if things turned out the way he suspected they would. "All right. Thank you."

"Just keep an eye on those kids. I get the feeling you can protect them a lot better than I can."

John couldn't reply to that. Instead, he watched Lestrade stride down the hall to the lift. The detective probably headed home to his wife, his little daughter, a beer, and a game of football on television. John rolled his head on his shoulders and groaned. God, that sounded good. Home. When was the last time he'd been at his flat? By Christ, he was tired of fighting battles he couldn't win. Damn Mr. Holmes, he would find a way to protect Sherlock and Mycroft, but right now he was worthless. Tired, tired, so tired…

"Hey. John!" When John flinched at the sound of Sarah's voice, the other doctor smiled knowingly. "Go home. I'll find someone else to take the next shift. No, don't argue—just go. You're no use to anyone like this."

"No use anyway," John grumbled. Sarah took the time to lay a gentle hand on his arm.

"You tried. Sometimes that's all you can do with patients. You've been on the cancer floor. You know that."

"Yeah, but this is different!" John stopped himself short. Sarah knew it was different. He could tell by the look in her eyes. He was tired. He was wearing thin. He groaned again and put his hands up in defeat. "Fine, I'm going. I'm going. Page me if anything happens to one of my patients, though, okay? I want to be here."

Since he could already see the "no" forming on Sarah's lips, John took off down the hall before he had to hear it aloud. As he pushed the down button by the lift, Mary Morstan called from the nurses' station, "You'll see, Dr. Watson! Everything'll look brighter in the morning!"

John ignored her soundly. Fuck the morning. Things needed to get better for Sherlock and Mycroft _now._

While he walked back to his flat, all John could only think about Sherlock's shrieks. _NO! John! John! I want my John! _ When he opened the front door, an old umbrella stand fell over in front of him; John kicked it aside angrily when he remembered Mycroft hiding behind his ridiculous brolly. Before the thoughts could overwhelm him entirely, John jumped in the shower to clear his mind. The scalding water on his back didn't do much to distract him from the Holmes boys' plight, but at least it loosened his knotted muscles.

As soon as John stepped out of the shower, he heard a knock at the front door. He glanced at his unlit pager. No patients. It wasn't work-related, then. He pulled a face. "Go away," he grumbled in the door's general direction. "Go on, get out of here!" When the knocking continued insistently, John sighed. "Fine!" he bellowed. "Keep your shirt on! I'm coming!" _Just let me get _my_ damn shirt on first. Don't want to blind the neighbors._

The rapping continued impatiently while John dragged on his clothes. He rolled his eyes irritably. "I said hold on! Jesus. I'm coming!"

John stumbled tiredly to the front door. Just as he reached it, the persistent knocking stopped. A small, frightened voice replaced it. "Please, John, open the door."

John's heart leapt into his throat. All tiredness drained away when he yanked open the door and a trembling figure in a three-piece suit stumbled inside. John caught the shaking boy just before he hit the floor. "Mycroft!"

.

.

.

* * *

><p>AN: Once again, many thanks to teacrumpetsandjam for harassing me until I finished this chapter. She sent me a picture of Martin Freeman pointing at me with the caption: "YOU SHOULD BE WRITING." He's my computer background now and has so far spurred me to write a chapter and a half of this story as well as two six-page papers for school. If you ever have writer's block, just get yourself a picture of angry Martin. He's great at encouragement.

I have had so many questions and concerns regarding the boys' ages that I had to make another note here. No, I will never SORAS them. I deliberated carefully before deciding on their ages. Sherlock is nearly three and a genius. He could conceivably have that good of a grasp on the English language. I run all of his lines past a three-year-old girl who I work with. Since she can pronounce all of the words and even understand them a little if I explain them in her terms, I think a precocious two-year-old named Sherlock Holmes could certainly manage them. His enunciation would not be perfect, but I can leave his adorable little lisp to your imagination.

(Just imagine a tiny Benedict. The cuteness of it may kill you. At least Sherlock hisses—it lowers the adorable factor into a safer zone.)

Anyway, I'm glad so many of you have enjoyed this story so far (what, twentysome reviews for two chapters? Not to mention all the story alerts. It's quite shocking). I'm happy to continue on this adventure with you, John, the boys, and now Lestrade. Cheers and happy reading. –Icey.

OH! P.S. If any of you are British or have first-hand knowledge of the British courts system, please contact me. I'm very American, unfortunately, so while having two lawyers for parents gives me great insight to the workings of the American courts system, I don't fully understand Britain's system. I'll need to for future chapters. Message me if you know anything! Thanks.


	4. A Right Pair of Soldiers

_John stumbled tiredly to the front door. Just before he reached it, the persistent knocking stopped. A frightened voice replaced it. "Please, John?"_

_John's heart leapt into his throat. All tiredness drained away when he yanked open the door and Mycroft fell inside. John caught the boy just before he hit the floor. "Mycroft!_"

* * *

><p>"Mycroft! What are you doing here? Jesus <em>Christ<em>."

Instinctively, Mycroft pulled away from John. John caught him by the shoulders again and tipped his head back to get a better look at what he'd glimpsed before. Angry red welts marred Mycroft's face; one eye was almost swollen shut. John took a deep breath to steady his voice. "Who hit you?"

Though Mycroft seemed near tears, he still managed a scornful look. "You _know_ it was my father. You knew it at the hospital! I was just too-too afraid to say it to the Detective Inspector around my father. They frightened me. John, you have to help me! _Please_."

"Okay, okay. It's all right." John tightened his grip on Mycroft's shoulder. "You're safe now. What happened?"

"Father won't let me see Sherlock. I think he's done something to him!"

John's spine stiffened. When Mycroft took a frightened step backward, John unclenched his fists with a start. "Oh, no, sorry. I'm so sorry, Mycroft." Quickly, he dropped into a crouch in front of the boy so they were closer to eye-to-eye. "I'm not angry with you." John took a deep breath to steady his trembling growl. "I promise I'm not angry with you."

Mycroft nodded. "You're angry with my father, aren't you? That's why I looked you up in the directory. I knew you were angry with my father when he took Sherlock away. I knew you would help me."

John nodded swiftly. "Yes, I will. Just tell me what happened."

Mycroft folded his chubby hands in front of him, as if he were praying. "Once we got home from the hospital, Father—" The boy breathed in shakily. "Father took Sherlock up to the nursery to have a talk with him. He does that when Sherlock's been naughty. It always upsets Sherlock. He never learns. He just throws fits. I'm the only one who can calm him. Sherlock will listen to me sometimes," Mycroft added almost proudly. His face fell, though, as he continued speaking.

"I could hear the door open and close and Sherlock having one of his screaming fits, so I went upstairs to calm him. I'd just got to the door when Father stopped me. He told me not to be a fat sissy. He said I…" Mycroft searched for the word, "coddled Sherlock too much, that he would be weak if I kept doing it and that we both needed to learn not to embarrass our family. I didn't mean to, John, I really didn't, but Father wouldn't listen. He boxed my ears," Mycroft whispered. "He does that when I'm naughty. I try to behave, John. I try not to be an embarrassment! I promise, I _swear_ I never meant to be an embarrassment!"

"You aren't," John said swiftly. "You're brave, coming here."

"But I'm not!" Mycroft cried. "I knew I was in terrible trouble. My face doesn't usually hurt this much. I sat in my room the way Father told me to and thought about how I'd embarrassed the family, but then I got frightened. It was too quiet. Sherlock always makes sounds, even in his sleep. He's never silent, Doctor Watson! Never! When Father found me outside Sherlock's room again, he looked so angry that I ran away. I ran! I _was_ a sissy boy, and now Father will hurt Sherlock even more because I ran! I'm sorry, John—"

Instantly, John shook his head. "No. No. This isn't your fault!" When Mycroft flinched, John softened his voice slightly. "You did the right thing, coming here, Mycroft. Don't move."

Mycroft watched worriedly as John took the stairs two at a time. "Where are you going?"

"Stay there!" John ordered. Quickly, Mycroft slipped back into the shadows.

In John's bedroom, under a certain loose floorboard beneath the bed, an Army Browning L9A1 lay in wait for any sign of trouble. Technically, since John wasn't on active duty, he shouldn't have had it, but his captain hadn't said a word when he'd seen John smuggle it back with the rest of his things. At the time, John hadn't understood himself why he'd brought it back to London. Now, as he loaded it and tucked it in his waistband, he was extremely glad he had. His military training told him to never ignore his sixth sense, and right now it screamed to him that Sherlock and Mycroft were in very real danger.

To John's relief, Mycroft stood obediently by the door when he returned. Gently, John laid an ice pack over Mycroft's bruised face. "Hold that on there as long as you can stand. Let's go."

Mycroft's brow furrowed. "Go where?"

"To see a friend." _At least I hope he's a friend. All right, Detective Sergeant, let's see if you're as good of a man as you claim to be. _While he waited for a cab to pull over, John dialed the number from the crumpled slip of paper into his mobile phone. It rang once, twice, three times as he helped Mycroft into the cab. _Damn it, pick up—_

_ "Detective Sergeant Lestrade."_

"Yeah, this is Dr. John Watson."

_"Lieutenant! Did you find anything?"_

"No, actually, anything found me." John glanced at Mycroft's shivering form. "Mycroft Holmes came to my flat. He must have looked up my address in the directory. He's frightened and hurt, and he thinks Sherlock's been seriously hurt as well."

Lestrade's voice sharpened immediately. _"By whom? Their father?"_

"Yes," a quiet voice to John's left murmured. John winced. Obviously, Mycroft could hear the other end of the conversation perfectly well. John repeated the answer and then gave the impatient cabbie a hard glare.

"Listen, we need to act now. Sherlock's in trouble. If you can't help me, fine, but at least help Mycroft. He needs a safe place to stay. I'm coming to the Yard."

_ "Of course I'll help. Don't come to the Yard, though. Gregson's still here. D'you have a pen and paper? Write this address down. I'll meet you there."_

"Okay…" Quickly, John relayed the address to the cab driver. As the cab pulled away from the kerb, John asked Lestrade, "So where exactly—"

Only then did he realize the DS had hung up.

* * *

><p>Mycroft studied the row of flats curiously. Without thinking, John took one of his hands while they crossed the street. He only noticed the contact when he tried to pull his hand away to retrieve the address from his pocket and Mycroft tightened his grip. John grimaced and dug around with the other hand instead. "Flat C," Mycroft supplied quietly.<p>

"Oh. Right." As the two of them climbed the stairs to the flat, John looked around for DS Lestrade. The man was nowhere in sight, though maybe he was already inside the flat. In the seconds between John's hard rap on the door and the door swinging open, John's mind flew ahead to an unknown house somewhere—_mansion, probably, look at how Mycroft dresses every day, so there's a lot of rooms, but Mycroft said the nursery's upstairs. If we can figure out which room, Lestrade can go through the window while I try the door—or the other way 'round, I'm the only one with a gun, after all. Come on, Sherlock. Hang in there. I'm coming. Lestrade, open the fucking door—_

"'Lo?" a tiny voice asked uncertainly.

John jumped and looked down at the tousle-haired little girl in the doorway. He'd never been good with ages, but he could guess from her size that the girl was a bit older than Sherlock. "Oh, sorry," John said, already backing away. "We must have the wrong—"

"No, we don't," Mycroft countered. A pained smile flashed across his face while he crouched in front of the uncertain girl. "Hello, Maria Lestrade. My name is Mycroft Holmes. That's Doctor John Watson. Would you please go fetch your father for us?"

"He isn't home," Maria mumbled around the thumb she'd popped in her mouth while John tried to wrap his mind around the fact that the DS had sent them to his own home. "What's wrong with your face?"

Before Mycroft could answer, a slender woman appeared in the doorway and scooped Maria up. "'Rie! You know better than to open the door without Mummy there! My husband's not home," Mrs. Lestrade informed John before she looked down at Mycroft's earnest, bruised face and paused. "What on earth…who sent you here?"

Heavy footsteps on the stairs interrupted John's answer. "I did. Hey, Miss Sunshine," Lestrade laughed when Maria launched from her mother's arms into his. "Go back to your mum. It's way past your bedtime."

"But there are people here!" Maria protested.

"Yeh, I noticed. Mycroft's going to spend the night, if that's all right with Lieutenant Watson."

John blinked. _Didn't know that was my decision, DS. _"Of course it is. We have work to do."

Lestrade's face darkened as he looked over Mycroft's bruised face. He tapped the underside of Mycroft's chin gently. "Oh, yes, we do. Mycroft, would you please take Maria inside and pick out a bedtime story for her? My wife'll come check on you two in a few."

A shy smile crossed Mycroft's features. "What sort of story?"

When Lestrade shrugged, John answered for him. "One Sherlock likes."

Immediately, Mycroft brightened. Mrs. Lestrade set Maria on her feet. Mycroft took the smaller girl's hand and led her inside the cramped flat. "Now, Maria, have you ever read anything by J. M. Barrie? My brother enjoys the pirates in _Peter Pan_..."

"Right, that's settled. I'll be back in the morning, Elise," Lestrade said as he leaned over to kiss his wife. She frowned and caught his arm.

"Where are you going, Greg? Who's that boy?"

"His name's Mycroft, and I'm going to go arrest his father for child abuse. Don't ask why he's here and not at the Yard. It's complicated. Go easy on him."

Elise paled. "'Course I will, Greg. Poor thing."

By now, John stood halfway down the stairs, shifting from foot to foot impatiently. "Ready?"

"Yeh." Lestrade followed John down to the street, where the DS held open the passenger door of an unmarked police car. As John settled into the passenger seat, Lestrade dug what looked suspiciously like a pistol out of the glove compartment and loaded it. At John's questioning look, Lestrade said, "Yes, I do know it's illegal, and yes, I do know how to shoot straight. Just because I can't legally carry a gun doesn't mean people don't shoot at me sometimes. You managed to sneak your gun back, didn't you?"

"You do have a point there. Just as long as you can aim," John muttered. "I didn't get shot in Afghanistan. I'd prefer not to get shot by you. Do you know exactly how to get to the Holmes' house?"

"I looked over a map before I left the Yard." As he pulled out into traffic, Lestrade flicked a switch on the dashboard. Instantly, a blue light behind the rear-view mirror began to flash, and the unmistakable sound of a police siren filled the air. When John scowled, Lestrade rolled his eyes. "I'll turn them off before we get too close. It's a bit of a drive out there. If Sherlock's in danger, we can't waste any time in traffic."

Other than the eternal wail of the siren, the drive into the countryside passed in relative silence. John compulsively unloaded and reloaded his handgun while Lestrade's fingers drummed on the steering wheel. _If Mr. Holmes backhands Sherlock the way he does Mycroft… _John nearly phoned Sarah to warn her he might be bringing Sherlock Holmes back to the hospital in the near future but decided against it. _She let him leave the hospital. If she's not on Sherlock's side, and she tips off Gregson, Sherlock'll be in even worse trouble than he is now. _John caught himself in the middle of unloading the gun yet again and grimaced. _Stop it, Lieutenant, _he reprimanded himself. _Focus. Strategize. Do something productive._

As they rolled off the highway onto a quieter country road, Lestrade flicked off the siren and flashing light. Suddenly, dark silence enveloped the car. Lestrade's grip on the steering wheel tightened. "Do you know what storey of the house Sherlock's on?"

"Second, probably. Third if they've got one. Mycroft said he was upstairs."

Lestrade nodded. "How much danger do you honestly think Sherlock's in?"

"You're the DS. You deal with cases like this all the time."

"Oh, no, not like this. Not with genius kids and an army doctor and a da who works for—well, let's just say nothing about this is normal." John frowned and began to ask _A da who works for what, exactly? _when the car crested a hill and Lestrade switched off the headlights entirely. The doctor's eyes widened when he saw the behemoth of a house crouching in the valley below. Beside him, Lestrade whistled. "It's a bloody fortress. Look at the tower."

"Let's hope Sherlock's not in that," John mumbled. "Second or third storey, remember?"

"Right." Lestrade parked the car on the shoulder and took a deep breath. His fingers ran circles around the outline of a nicotine patch on his right arm. "You're a crack shot?"

With a shrug, John threw open his car door. "I'm not afraid to shoot if Sherlock's in danger, if that's what you're asking. What's got you so spooked, Detective?"

Lestrade opened his mouth to reply and then shook his head. His dark eyes reflected the faint light coming from the manse in the valley. "I don't know everything, John. All I'm saying is Gregson had his reasons for being afraid of Holmes. He has a lot of power."

John snorted. "I'm not afraid. No man's above the law here, no matter how powerful they are. Now come on! The longer we wait, the more danger Sherlock's in. Are you going to help him or not?"

Without waiting for Lestrade to reply, John strode down the sloping hill toward the mansion. Lestrade followed almost silently in his footsteps. Clouds blanketed the night sky and cloaked the two figures in inky blackness.

As he approached the base of the hill, John's heart sank. _So many windows. So many rooms. Come on, Sherlock, yours has to be recognizable somehow. _"Which one?" Lestrade hissed beside him, echoing John's thoughts.

John nearly shrugged when a flash of light caught his eye. An umbrella handle leaned against one of the second-storey windows. John nearly grinned before he caught himself. "There's Mycroft's room. If he can hear Sherlock yelling, he must be right below him."

Lestrade's breath came out in a _woosh_. "Three storeys up. What's your plan?"

"I'll scale it if you go in the front door and distract them. Sherlock'll need medical attention. Do you have a warrant, or…"

Lestrade nodded and dug one hand into his overcoat's inner pocket. "Luckily for us, not all judges are as big of cowards as Gregson is. You're sure you can make it all the way up there?"

Scowling, John pulled himself up to his full height. "I invaded Afghanistan, Detective Sergeant. The real question is, can you walk in that front door without getting yourself killed?"

"Yes, sir, I think I can." Lestrade squared his shoulders as John turned to study the brick expanse before him. "I'll see you on the other side."

Hopefully, Lestrade would wait to ring the doorbell until John'd climbed through Sherlock's window. The ledge outside the ground-floor window gave John the perfect leverage onto one of the lower branches of a great oak tree outside the mansion. From there, he swung himself up to the ledge outside of Sherlock's room. With a grunt, John shouldered the window open and looked inside.

Overturned furniture littered the expansive room. A few broken toys lay on a fragile-looking desk in one corner, but John was far more concerned with the prone form inside the wooden crib in the middle of the room. "Sherlock?" he whispered.

No response.

Downstairs, the doorbell rang. As voices echoed through the faraway hall, John lowered himself into Sherlock's room and slipped over to the bed. Halfway there, he tripped on something solid. His stomach clenched when he realized it was Sherlock's plaster cast, broken and abandoned.

_"I thought we had already cleared this ugly matter up, Detective Sergeant."_

_ "Actually, no, we hadn't. See, this here is a warrant for your arrest."_

_ "On what charges? Surely your colleagues have realized by now that I am no child abuser."_

_ "It doesn't matter what my colleagues think, Mr. Holmes. The bruises on your son's face say otherwise."_

"Sherlock!" John hissed again. The pale boy in the crib didn't respond, not even when John leaned over and gently lifted him out of his bed. The boy's bloodied head lolled back, revealing a thin, pale neck mottled with bruises. With a curse, John lowered the boy to the wooden floor, ignoring the heated argument downstairs. His fingers fumbled for Sherlock's tiny vein in his wrist; when he couldn't find it, he lowered his head to Sherlock's chest instead and listened.

Nothing.

_Jesus Christ, no._

_ "I won't have you invading my home and slandering my name—"_

_ "I won't have you abusing your children."_

The Kiss of Life: pinch the nose, tip the head back, two breaths. Listen for a heartbeat. Nothing? _Pump._

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

_"They are _my _children, and you, Detective Sergeant, are entirely out of your division."_

Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.

_"I don't care if you _are _the bloody government! You aren't above the law! Now, hands in the air!"_

Twenty-one. Twenty-two.

_"I said hands in the air!"_

Twenty-three. Twenty-four.

_"You shouldn't have done that, Detective Sergeant. You just don't know when to stop playing. What will your wife and daughter think? Elise, is it, and Maria? A traitor husband and father, hmm."_

_ "You stay the hell away from them!"  
><em>

Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight.

_"Really not your division, Detective Sergeant. I did warn you and your superior and that little doctor of yours, didn't I? How does it feel to be a traitor to the Crown?"_

Twenty-nine.

_"A lot better than knowing that two innocent kids are trapped with you!"_

Thirty.

Listen.

Nothing.

"What on earth—oh my God. Oh my God."

Furs and silk in the doorway—Mrs. Holmes, reeking of alcohol and shrieking. _God. _"Call 999! NOW!" Two breaths and then pump to thirty. It felt like being back in Afghanistan, hot and bloody with someone else's life seeping out underneath his hands, except those had been grown men, soldiers, not tiny boys inside their nurseries! They hadn't been _Sherlock!_

_No. God. Sherlock._

_ Please, God, let him live!_

_.  
><em>

_.  
><em>

* * *

><p>.<p>

Obligatory Author's Notes: As usual, thanks to teacrumpetsandjam for catching my goofs. My American was definitely showing in the first few drafts of this chapter. Example: people don't carry (legal) guns in the UK. Culture shock! Many of my friends here own and carry handguns. I don't—I'd shoot myself in the foot by accident or something—but guns are in a way omnipresent. It took me several tries to write them into this chapter without turning the UK into the US, and even now I'm not sure I pulled it off properly.

I'll be heading to the library this week to do some heavy-duty research about Britain's legal system. If any of you can recommend some sites or books, please do. I'm trying desperately to make this storyline believable.

In regards to the CPR: I'm trained in adult CPR, but that differs slightly from child CPR, and I'm up for my yearly retraining soon. I'm a bit rusty—happily, I've never had to use it in real life. Hopefully John did an all right job of it.

I've added more songs to the playlist for this story! While I wrote the end of this chapter, I listened to "Deep Shadows," the Hunger Games trailer song. Here's the playlist (delete the spaces first, of course). ht tp: / / ww w.y o utube . c om /pla ylis t?lis t=PL 63C EEDDB8 999 4D38& feature e=mh _lolz

Thanks for reading! –Icey.


	5. Orders

CPR didn't always restart someone's heart. It was usually more of a placeholder, something to keep oxygen and blood flowing through an unconscious person's body until the emergency crews came with shock pads. Rarely, the patient began to breathe on their own while the first responder pumped their chest.

Beneath John's hands, Sherlock took a shuddering breath.

Immediately, John stopped pumping. Sherlock coughed weakly before taking more erratic gasps of air. As Sherlock's breathing turned into frightened hiccups, John cradled the tiny boy against his chest. "It's okay, Sherlock. I've got you."

Though Sherlock's eyelids fluttered, John couldn't be certain whether it was a reaction to his voice or just Sherlock's body struggling with the strain of breathing. John glanced towards where Mrs. Holmes had been and then cursed at the empty doorway. _I'll assume she didn't call 999, then. Damn it—Sherlock, keep breathing._

"I'm going to move you, okay, Sherlock?" John told Sherlock's prone form. "I have to get my mobile out of my pocket. It's okay," he soothed when Sherlock whined. "Just let me make a call."

Most people's hands shook when they felt angry or frightened. John's hands remained perfectly still. When the operator answered, John said crisply, "I need an ambulance and the police. A two-year-old here was beaten unconscious. He stopped breathing for about a minute. I did CPR, and he's breathing on his own now. He's still in danger, though. Yes, the abuser's still here and dangerous. I'll find the address."

Gently, John lifted Sherlock up and walked to the window. Enough light streamed out of the still-open front door that he could read the brass numbers on the front of the house. He rattled them off to the operator with military precision. "Long driveway, huge—massive house. You can't miss it. Hurry."

John let his mobile slip from his fingers while he adjusted Sherlock in his arms. The boy's breathing had steadied, but John still watched the rise and fall of his fragile chest closely. In the Army, John's natural patience had allowed him to crouch calmly beside a wounded soldier in a storm of bullets until the rescue helicopter came. Now, John struggled to remain still. No sounds other than Sherlock's ragged breathing echoed through the house. _Greg's a DS, _John reminded himself. _He can hold off Mr. Holmes for a little while._

…_I hope._

Finally, sirens wailed up the long drive. Downstairs, something (_someone?)_ slammed against the door before a voice yelled, "Police! Open up!" Chaos—voices—but John ignored them, remaining silent and still. When heavy footsteps clattered up the stairs, John curled his body around Sherlock. He only straightened up from his protective crouch once the paramedics came through the door.

"His name's Sherlock Holmes," John told them without prompting. "He's two years old. He was unconscious and unresponsive when I found him. He started breathing after about a minute of CPR. His left arm was already broken in three places before tonight. He's been to the hospital twice in the past month for abuse-related injuries."

"Does he have any pre-existing medical conditions other than the broken arm?"

Quickly, John thought back to the chart in Sherlock's hospital room. "None that I know of."

The paramedic nodded. "We're going to lift him onto the stretcher now, okay? Will you help—oh, great, you've already braced his head. Are you—?"

"I'm his doctor." John felt rather than saw the looks the paramedics exchanged while he focused on settling Sherlock onto the stretcher. When they tarried a moment too long, John squared his shoulders. "Can we get moving, please?"

In Afghanistan, John would have been the one taking up an end of the stretcher to heave it onto the nearest chopper. Here, he trailed behind the paramedics, murmuring gentle encouragement to Sherlock's immobile form, while they eased the unconscious boy down two flights of stairs. On the ground level, John tried and failed to ignore the splattering of blood across the marble floor. Fervently, he hoped it belonged to Mr. Holmes.

One step through the front door immersed the paramedics, Sherlock, and John in the chaos of light and sound. John's fingers twitched toward his gun when he heard the familiar _thwap-thwap-thwap_ of helicopter blades. _For Sherlock? But how'd they manage to call one in so quickly?_

"Watson!"

John snapped to attention at the sound of that voice. He whirled from the back of the ambulance to see a very familiar figure striding across the Holmes' lawn. "Captain!"

"What the fuck?" his captain growled once he reached John. "What the fuck, Watson, I told you to keep out of trouble once you got back! Do you know who that chopper's for? Us! Us, Watson! I got woken up at one just to come out here and ride in that chopper with you because apparently you're some kind of traitor to the Crown or—"

"I'm not a traitor. I was just—there's a two-year-old boy in that ambulance dying because his dad decided to beat the hell out of him! I'm a doctor, Captain. I'm a soldier. I'm supposed to protect people, and that's what I was doing. How does that make me a traitor?"

John's captain scowled. "I don't know. I sure as hell hope whoever's on that helicopter understands better than I do."

As wind from the helicopter's blades buffeted all the people surrounding the mansion, Sherlock's ambulance pulled away. John watched it leave, worry making his hands tremble slightly. Putting a patient into someone else's care was always hard, but losing Sherlock made John feel ill. He couldn't control what happened to Sherlock anymore. If something happened to that boy…

"Captain Macgregor! Lieutenant Watson!" The helicopter pilot, a younger soldier with an anxious, boyish face, beckoned them impatiently. John followed his captain on board, as he had so many times in Afghanistan, and strapped himself in. As the helicopter lifted off, he closed his eyes, imagining he was back in the desert, about to land beside a pinned-down convoy. About to heal, to save, to do something constructive.

John clenched his fists and glared out the window at the city lights now glittering below him. _I should be with Sherlock._

Until his captain answered him, John didn't realize he had spoken those words aloud. "You're awfully worried about that kid."

"Of course I—" John stopped, suddenly aware of who he spoke to. He ducked his head apologetically. "Yes, sir, I am. Sherlock's amazing, the most brilliant kid—no, the most brilliant person I've ever met. I can't imagine why anyone would want to beat him enough to kill him! If Sherlock were my son—"

The captain's eyebrows shot up. "You're pretty damn close to him, for him being your patient."

"I know, sir. I'm a bit too close, to be honest." John shrugged absentmindedly. "I don't really know how it happened. He's just such a fantastic kid…I couldn't let his father abuse him anymore, sir. I couldn't. I knew Sherlock and his brother were being mistreated. I had an obligation to protect them."

"I think that's the police's job, Watson."

"Yeah, well, they weren't doing their job, sir…"

John's voice trailed off when he caught sight of their destination. His captain frowned and peered out the window. "Fucking hell."

That summed up John's thoughts quite nicely. He'd heard that the garden at Buckingham Palace was also a helicopter pad. He'd just never thought he would have the opportunity to test that theory. Instinctively, he squared his shoulders as he followed Captain Macgregor and the helicopter pilot into the palace. _Are we here to see the queen? Jesus, I'm not dressed properly for this. What the hell am I doing here?_

The helicopter pilot led Captain Macgregor and John into a well-lit and lavishly furnished inner room. Two men already stood, talking in low voices, at the end of the room. When the helicopter pilot called, "Sir," one of them turned to face John and his captain.

"Ah. Stillman, you're back. So that's Watson, then?" When the helicopter pilot nodded, the grey-haired man strode towards their little group. "Take Macgregor down the hall. There are different orders for him. Craig and I want to speak to Lieutenant Watson. Lieutenant?"

John recognized the man immediately. Though he'd never met him, he'd heard him speak on the BBC and seen him via satellite telly while he was in Afghanistan. He was different in person—a little more old and grey, but even more imposing. As the helicopter pilot led his captain away, John snapped to attention. "Sir!"

The United Kingdom's chief of defense waved him off. "At ease, Lieutenant. Find a seat."

John remained standing, very nearly awestruck, as the defense chief settled himself onto one of the upholstered chairs. When the older man waved an irritable hand at him, John remembered himself and perched uncomfortably on the edge of a fainting couch. The other man, a twitchy fellow in a sport coat, sidled up to him with a sniff. "Well, you've gotten yourself into a fine mess, Lieutenant."

John shook his head quickly. "You mean with Sherlock Holmes? It's no worse than the mess I was in over in Afghanistan, sir."

"That's what you think now. Do you know who Reynard Holmes is, Lieutenant?"

John's jaw tightened. His mind flew back to their first meeting in Sherlock's hospital room, with the huge man towering over his frightened sons, and then again to only a few hours previous, when the cruel man's voice echoed up the stairwell while John desperately pumped air and blood through Sherlock's frail body. "I know he's Sherlock's father, and I know he abused both of his sons. Sir."

"And you're angry about that," the defense chief observed.

When John's gaze darkened, the man in the sport coat asked nervously, "Lieutenant Watson, do you understand how much power Holmes has? You've endangered the entire nation with your idiocy—"

Behind his back, John clenched his hands into fists. "How? How have I endangered it? Mycroft's seven. Sherlock's just two! I don't care who their father is or what he does. He's not above the law. He has no right to try to kill them. They're kids, for God's sake! They didn't ask for this!" Sometime during his tirade, John leapt to his feet. Suddenly, he looked down at the two disapproving men in front of him and realized who he was yelling at. His face flushed; slowly, he sank back into his seat. "I'm sorry, sir," he muttered. "I just can't imagine…You obviously somehow know who I am. You know I've been in Afghanistan. I've done CPR on a lot of patients who have been badly abused, but never children! I became an army doctor for a reason," he said finally. "I know I'm way out of bounds here. I know you can discipline me for disrespect, or even court-martial me for whatever my treason is supposed to be, but I joined the RAMC to help people. If I can't even protect two children back home—"

"I understand your frustration." Though the defense chief spoke sharply, John relaxed at his sympathetic words. "I've felt it every day I've had to deal with Reynard Holmes. If you truly knew who he was, perhaps you would better comprehend the delicacy of this situation, but for now you must trust my word. Do you understand?"

Slowly, John nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Now, please answer Craig's question for me," the defense chief requested with a sideways glare in the twitchy man's direction.

"Do I understand how much power Sherlock and Mycroft's father has?" John hesitated. "No, sir," he finally admitted, "but I know it was enough for him to convince Scotland Yard to ignore violent child abuse for a very long time. From what I saw tonight and what Mycroft told me earlier, it was horrible. They had a routine, sir, a routine of abuse. They expected it."

The defense chief sighed. "You'll see worse before this is through, Lieutenant. Now, while Craig is right—you've gotten yourself into quite a predicament—we may be able to use this to everyone's advantage."

John frowned. "Everyone's?"

"Well, maybe everyone but Holmes. I did some planning while you were busy shouting." When John ducked his head, the defense chief waved him off. "Up until your outburst a few minutes ago, you'd proven yourself to be admirably level-headed in a crisis. I need you to prove it again." The defense chief leaned forward, arms braced on his knees, his intense gaze fixed entirely on John. John straightened up as much as he could on the plush couch. "From what I've heard, Holmes' sons have become attached to you over a very short period of time. Good. This can work to our advantage. In order to keep them out of danger until their father's trial begins, they will be placed in your protective custody."

It took John a minute to find his voice. "Sir?"

"You heard me. You're a soldier and an accomplished doctor who has already gone far beyond the call of duty for these children. You can protect these boys, you want to protect these boys, and you will protect these boys. You'll get more information on a need-to-know basis. Until then, Lieutenant Watson, your orders are to care for Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes as if they are your own sons. Do you understand?"

John's mind whirled with questions, but his military training made him nod sharply. "Yes, sir."

"Good. You'll be flown back to the hospital now to stay by Sherlock Holmes' bedside. One of his nurses will bring you the emergency custody papers to sign. Mycroft Holmes is, I believe, still at the home of Scotland Yard Detective Sergeant Gregory Lestrade?"

"Lestrade," John said suddenly. "Is he okay? I didn't think to—Jesus Christ, I forgot about him. He was downstairs at the mansion keeping Mr. Holmes busy while I tried to get Sherlock to breathe. I didn't think to look for him after—is Lestrade okay?"

The nervous man in the sport coat nodded. "We've got a good eye on him."

"Thank you, Craig. What do you think, Lieutenant? Should Mycroft Holmes be allowed to stay with the Lestrades for tonight?" When John hesitated, the defense chief scowled. "Come on, Watson. What did I tell you? _Act as if he's your son!"_

John's brow furrowed. _Easier said than done! I've never had children before. I don't know what I'm doing. _In his mind's eye, he pictured Mycroft fast asleep on a li-lo with a borrowed umbrella shielding his head. "Yes, sir," John said finally. "He can stay the night there. He likes Lestrade, and so do I. Besides, it'll give me time to get my flat ready."

The defense chief raised his eyebrows in Craig's direction. Reluctantly, the man in the sport coat nodded. John suddenly felt as if he'd passed a test. "Very good," the defense chief said. "As I said before, admirably level-headed. Well, then, that's all for tonight. Go to the hospital. Protect Sherlock Holmes. Tomorrow, Mycroft Holmes will be delivered to you, and then you'll prepare for the trial. I'll speak to you within the week. Craig, I'll see you out. Good night, Watson—and good luck."

With a crisp salute and a nod, the general and the nervous man strode out the door, leaving John to stare after them in shock. _The chief—the actual chief of defense—he wants me to take care of Sherlock and Mycroft? Bloody hell. Jesus Christ. Orders to—Mycroft and Sherlock—bloody hell! Who's their father? What's he do? Why's he so important?_

"Watson! You all right?"

"What—oh, yeah, Cap, fine, fine. I'm, uh, I am seriously considering nicking an ashtray."

Captain Macgregor snorted. "Just don't blame it on me if you get caught. You've dragged me into a hell of a lot already tonight." When John stood up, the captain eyed him thoughtfully. "I've just heard more about you than I ever wanted to know. You're really taking in those two kids?"

John hesitated. The defense chief hadn't said anything about not telling anyone about the boys, and, to be honest, it would be hard to hide Sherlock for long. He nodded. "They don't have anywhere else to go."

"Well, that's good of you. You're up in it to here, aren't you?" his captain asked, gesturing toward his neck. When John didn't reply, he sighed. "Just don't get yourself killed before we rotate back over to Afghanistan, okay? That's an order. We need a fuckin' good doctor." He clapped John on the shoulder. "Go get on that helicopter. I'll be seeing you around."

John spent the short ride to the hospital lost in a maelstrom of tired thoughts. _Why me? I'm not a father. I don't have much money. I'm definitely not as smart as Sherlock and Mycroft. How can I keep up with them? I can try to protect them, but how can I succeed?_

As soon as he entered the pediatric intensive care unit, John accosted the nearest nurse. "I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes. He's two. Severe fractures, multiple contusions, was unconscious when he came in?"

"If you're not his appointed guardian, you can't see him."

"I am his appointed guardian. John Watson. Um, I was told I'd be given papers…?"

Comprehension lit the nurse's eyes. "Right! I have those. Here you go. Have a pen. I'll fax the form in as soon as you've read and signed—or you can just sign right now without reading. That works too."

John smiled tiredly as he handed the forms back over. "I know what I'm getting into."

"Good for you. Room 259. He's still out," the nurse told him. "I can't promise you anything.

"Believe me. I know."

_I know it all too well.  
><em>

The door to room 259 was closed, the curtain pulled all the way around the tiny bed. John could hear the hiss of an oxygen mask even before he saw Sherlock's pale and battered face. John took a deep breath to fight down a surge of rage. He wanted desperately to think of Sherlock as the curious, lively figure perched on his shoulders the day they met, not as the still, lifeless rag doll wrapped in bandages and wires. "Sherlock. Oh, Sherlock."

Suddenly, John's sleep deprivation caught up with him. His knees wobbled. He collapsed into a chair with a groan. Sherlock gave a snuffling sigh in response. John couldn't stifle his fond, startled laugh. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock, what have you gotten me into now?"

A thin, tired voice replied. "John?"

.

.

* * *

><p>It's been a crazy few weeks for me! I'm about to graduate from high school, so there's been proms (two of them), finals prep, and graduation practice… It took a healthy dose of the Avengers to get me back on track (two viewings so far), as well as a night of screaming at PBS for editing out the ashtray scene in "Scandal" (hence the nod to it in the chapter). This isn't the last you'll hear of Buckingham Palace—I'm about to take great liberties with the structure of the British government, and European government in general, in this story. I regret nothing. Reynard Holmes is more powerful than you can possibly imagine.<p>

Somebody called me "Moffata" for the last cliffie. I'm sorry—ish. At the very least, I hope I didn't actually kill any of you. Much love to gatissimo, formerly teacrumpetsandjam, on tumblr, who happily read this chapter early. Go follow her now. Also follow letmehavemytea, who prodded me into writing again.

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I'll see you in a week or two. –Icey.


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